


Fight Night

by beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: (reader gets a swat on the ass), Dirty Talk, F/M, Female Masturbation, MMA violence, Oral Sex, Sexual Frustration, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, almost spanking, blood and injuries, light exhibitionism, locker room quickie, non linear story structure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans
Summary: In the lead-up to a big fight, Ben has been put under strict orders to abstain from...extra-curricularactivities.Which means, indirectly, so have you.
Relationships: Ben Miller (Triple Frontier)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Fight Night

It’s always a confusing array of emotions, watching Benny in the ring. 

On one hand, from your vantage point ringside, you’re treated to a close up and raw view of his muscles rippling as he bobs and weaves on the balls of his feet. The man is a goddamn feast for the eyes. His skin glistens under the bright spotlights trained on the raised ring. He shifts like a prowling animal, ready to pounce in ambush, bloodlust plastered across his handsome face; an apex predator reveling in a primal struggle for dominance. 

On the other hand, a brutal blow to his side has him doubled over and stumbling back toward you and Will. He barely recovers before another fist slams his jaw, sending blood splattering across the floor of the ring. Benny bounces off the fencing of the cage in front of you. You cringe. 

Will knocks his shoulder against yours. He can sense your tension—of course he can. He’s observant like that. He can always intuit things about people whether they want him to know or not. His arms are crossed and his shoulders squared toward the ring, but he tilts his head toward you, sharp gaze never once leaving his baby brother. 

“Hey, it’s okay. We planned this,” he assures you through his teeth. You’re not exactly sure how you hear him over the rioting crowd, but the soft rumble of his voice seeps into your awareness all the same. His lips barely move and you can tell he’s trying to hide his words from the hawkish man glaring across from the opposite side of the octagon. “Kennedy’s biggest weakness is his arrogance. Benny’s playing dumb right now, waiting for him to drop his guard.”

“I know,” you wince as a bell rings, ending the round. Benny stumbles back toward the two of you. “Doesn’t mean I like seeing him spit blood.”

“Yeah,” Will sighs as he opens the cage door and swings a stool up for Benny to sit. “Me neither.” 

* * *

Benny always has trouble falling asleep the night before a big fight, simmering nerves threatening to vibrate him right out of his skin. He’s on edge, so you give him a wide berth. There’s nothing you can do for him. You can’t manipulate the flow of time to ease his anxiety, and any attempt to distract him inevitably accelerates his spiral. Even so, he’s managed to find a book to occupy his racing mind, so you lean over the couch to kiss him goodnight and leave him to his reading. 

It’s been weeks since you last went to bed together. Sure, you still sleep in close proximity, bodies sprawled across each other on the same mattress. You wake up each morning with one of his hands absently cupping your ass as though pulled there by some localized gravitational field. The first few minutes of every day are still spent gingerly extricating yourself from his heavy embrace so that you can get ready for work. But in the ramp up to the fight, Ben had been ordered to abstain from, well, _extraneous_ physical activities. 

Which means, indirectly, you had been too. 

Will maintains that he can tell when Ben’s been ignoring the directive, something about the languid, easy way that Ben moves when he’s been well-fucked. He insists that Benny fights better when there’s tension lanced through his bones, when his aggression is twofold. Supposedly there’s some innate animal desire for carnage that Ben can only tap into when he’s frustrated—that base, depraved alpha male urge to _fight_ and to _fuck_. 

You want so badly to call bullshit on the whole premise, but _hey, it worked for Ali_ is a difficult argument to counter when thirty thousand dollars in prize money is on the line. 

So when you toss aside the heavy down comforter that the two of you share and land face down in the plush pillows at the head of the bed with a groan, your whole world smells like him. You roll over to stare up at the ceiling. There’s nothing you want more than to go back downstairs and climb on top of him, grind into his lap, feel his hands clamp down on your thighs, skim up your sides under the shirt of your pajamas, lay you back and—

It’s too much. 

In your mind’s eye, the hand on your abdomen becomes his, warm and heavy against your belly, a gentle pressure squeezing a deafening pulse of need from your core all the way to your toes. The elastic band on your sleep shorts yields easily to your hand as you slip past it and into the warmth beneath. You draw your fingers through your folds, a gasp bursting through your lips as you find yourself soaked with desire.

Your two fingers are one of his in your mind, slipping through the hot wetness between your legs, a tight circle around your clit before dipping back, pressing into you, stroking desperately at that elusive spot that you can barely reach within yourself. Your hips lift off the mattress of their own volition, searching in vain for more. You clamp your eyes shut, allowing your brain to conjure the spectre of Benny moving above you, around you, inside you, and his name escapes you in a whisper. 

You don’t even notice the bedroom door open until you hear his voice.

“Shit baby, you’re killin’ me here.”

* * *

Benny flops down on the stool in the corner of the ring, spitting out his mouth guard. Will climbs up into the cage and squats in front of his brother, offering a bottle of water and turning Ben’s face to examine his injuries. Benny swishes the cool liquid around his mouth and spits red water into the bucket Will holds up for him. He rolls his head to the side to look at you on the floor below and winks.

“You checking out my ass, sweetheart?”

“You know it,” you respond with a smile that you hope hides your concern.

“Benny…” Will warns. 

“Bro, did you know that there’s a smoking hot chick watching me fight right now? Hot damn!”

“ _Focus_ , man.” 

“Gotta impress my woman.”

“Poor thing already married your dumb ass. She’s stuck.” Wills slaps his brother gently on the face, and points to the panel of judges sitting ringside. “Impress _them_.”

Benny’s eyes snap to Will’s, his face suddenly deadly serious. A chill sweeps through you at the grim severity that floods his expression. You know perfectly well what he used to do for a living, even held him as he shook through the nightly guilt after his last deployment—the one that finally broke his spirit and made him put in for discharge. You know that there’s blood on your husband’s hands, but seeing that blank ferocity up close never loses its intensity. “Break him?” 

“Break him.” 

* * *

He stalks toward you and drops to his knees at the side of your bed, his eyes wide. You pull your hand out of your underwear to reach for him but he shakes his head, splaying his hands out on the mattress between you like he doesn’t know what to do with them. You know what you want him to do with them. They need to be on you—in you. 

“No, don’t stop,” he protests. “Let me watch.”

“I need you Benny, it’s been _weeks_ ,” you whine as you slide your hand back down your stomach and let your knees fall open. You whimper as your fingertips brush over your clit, and you swear you hear an echo, an octave lower and twice as desperate. 

“I know, I—“

“I’m not asking you to fuck me, just _touch_ me.”

“Sweetheart, I can’t.” 

“Please, Ben,” you beg, rolling your head to the side and fixing him with your widest eyes. He groans. His hands curl into fists in the sheets and buries his head in his arms on the mattress. His voice is muffled in the sheets and you feel him trembling on the floor, the bed frame shaking with the force of it. 

“If I touch you I’m not gonna be able to stop, baby. I’m not a strong man.”

* * *

Benny leaps up from the stool with a newfound ferocity, stuffing his mouth guard between his teeth with a snarl, a feral roar torn from his chest, bashing his fists together in a display of reckless masculinity. 

The first punch swings out and Benny ducks under the fist flying toward him, bouncing on nimble feet—a deft feint and then a crouch, then rockets himself up for a kidney shot anchored hard at his side. Benny throws his weight then, unlikely agility from such a large body, as he lands a vicious knee to his opponent’s torso. Kennedy staggers back, but recovers, swiping out with a snappy jab. This time his blow connects, clocking Benny in the jaw.

You flinch. The crowd around you gasps, groaning with the phantom pain of the crack that almost echoes through the gymnasium. He’ll have a busted cheek, no doubt about it. Next to you, even Will winces a little from witnessing the impact. But Benny takes it in stride, almost as though he expected the hit. Hell, maybe he had. 

Because the next strike he lands is brutal.

* * *

He lifts his head to look at your pleading face.

“Baby? Baby, please,” he begs you in return. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come. Can you show me? Show me how an angel breaks.” 

Your orgasm overtakes you like a tidal wave. Your body bows back on the mattress, hips cresting toward the ceiling, riding wave after wave of incomplete pleasure, searching desperately for stimulation; for more; for the delicious heavy fullness of him; for this beautiful man who would feel so sweet buried deep in your walls; for everything you know he aches to give you but can’t. 

Benny reaches for you, clutching your free hand between both of his and presses his forehead into the tangle of fingers he creates on the mattress. He breathes heavily, almost sobbing into your grasp. 

“If I don’t win tomorrow, I am going to murder my brother.” 

* * *

It’s like watching a lion pounce on a kill, Benny’s fists fly in a dizzying whirl of motion against his opponent, tension rippling across his back in a violent surge of—not fury, it’s too calculated and cold for that. It’s the unleashing of his darkest aggression, an uncaging of the killer instincts that civilian life no longer allows him. 

Kennedy stumbles back and Benny seizes the opportunity, wrapping his long limbs around his opponent and dropping them both to the mat in a crushing submission hold. He encounters barely any resistance as they fall, and the referee’s whistle pierces the air, sharp and sure. The cold snap ends and Benny relents, releasing the rigid tension in his muscles and rolling away as the fight physician clambers up into the cage. 

Benny retreats to his corner, bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. Will steps up to watch too, his tiptoes tucked into the fencing three feet off the gym floor, clinging to the side of the cage to watch the physician help the dazed fighter on the mat back to his own counter and run a few preliminary tests. A few moments pass before the doctor shakes his head, a quick swipe of his hand across his throat–the call, technical knockout. 

The crowd roars, and Benny and Will erupt in tandem victorious screams. Will rattles the side of the cage in celebration as Benny throws his head back in a triumphant howl. The brothers meet at the edge of the cage, and bump foreheads through the wire before Benny turns and blows you a kiss off his boxing glove. 

Thirty thousand dollars richer, minus Will’s cut.

You have to wait through the observation of after-fight rituals. There’s a burst of pride in your chest at the official declaration of Benny as victor while his opponent limps away for further examination. Then a fond exasperation as your husband peacocks around the cage, extravagant confidence that you know to be only _slightly_ exaggerated. Benny’s still pulsing with raw energy when he bounces down out of the cage and sweeps you into a massive bear hug, twirling you around in his arms. He buries his face in your shoulder with a contented groan.

In your periphery, you see a slew of fight groupies visibly deflate, and you can’t help but swell a little bit with territorial satisfaction. This warrior is _yours_. 

He half-pulls, half-carries you back to the lockers like an animal dragging prey back to its den. Will is hot on your heels, both men still whooping and hollering to high heaven, even as you pass into the privacy of the locker room. Still, you barely have time to plant a kiss to Benny’s lips before the fight physician stalks in behind you and shoos “anyone who isn’t Benjamin Miller” out the other end of the locker room and into the quiet hallway beyond. 

Your back lands next to Will against the painted cinder block wall. The rumble of the crowd is faint from here, muffled by several walls and solid wood doors, calmer now that the main event is done. Almost immediately, Will pumps the brakes of his glee, meets you where you are, turning his head to look at you, concerned. 

“You okay?” 

“I don’t like watching him take hits like that.” 

He slings his arm around your shoulders and gathers you into a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss into your hair. 

“I know,” he sighs. “But that’s Benny.” 

“Yeah.”

You stand in silence in the hall. Will’s presence is steady at your side, a comforting force next to you as you eye the door to the locker room, willing the examination to be over.

Ten minutes later, the door to the locker room creaks open, and the fight physician gives the both of you a thumbs up. A tension that you didn’t even realize was hanging over the both of you bleeds away as you get the news that Benny’s okay–no concussions, sprains or breaks, just a busted cheek and maybe a black eye. You’re barely listening anymore, overcome with relief, as the doctor offers both of you a curt handshake and excuses himself. 

Will turns to you, digging in the pockets of his jeans and producing the keys he checked out from the high school secretary earlier that day. He nods toward the door. 

“If I know anything about my brother…” he trails off, then winks. “I’ll go distract the reporters. Good luck.” 

The deadbolt inside the heavy door slams into place with loud _thunk_ and you tuck the keys into the pocket of your own jeans. The atmosphere inside the locker room is thick and you can practically sense Will’s knowing gaze eyeing the other side of the door. For the life of you, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just locked yourself in a cage with a wild animal, a primal rush of adrenaline, a prickling at the back of your neck—like a mouse sensing a hawk ahead, long before the threat is visible. Out of instinct, you can’t help but try and diffuse the tension, even though the last thing you are is afraid. 

“Why do you always take the women’s locker room?”

He gets shit for it from his competitors sometimes, the absurd toxic accusations of emasculation for readily relinquishing his draw for the men’s locker room. As though there were a significant difference, some shame associated with the room he changes in, as if the air inside the women’s locker room is pumped with extra estrogen like oxygen in Vegas, or something else equally idiotic. 

You hear the metallic slam of a locker as you round the corner and you freeze at the end of the bench running between the two rows of lockers. One side of his face is bruised and busted, butterfly bandages stretched across a nasty split in his cheek, but there’s not a hint of pain in his expression as he turns to you with a sly grin. He’s already naked as the day he was born, half-hard from the sound of your voice alone

“You’ve obviously never been inside a men’s locker room.”

“How do you know?” 

“Because you wouldn’t be asking that question if you had.” He reaches for you, hands wrapping around your wrists and tugging you closer. 

“But—”

“Baby, I love you so goddamn much,” he interrupts, grabbing your face with both hands and raising his eyebrows. “But I’m gonna need you to shut the fuck up and bend over this bench for me right now, okay?”

The noise that escapes you can only be described as a whimper as you nod into his palms. He grins, planting a bruising kiss to your mouth, wet and messy, your face held hostage between his hands. His tongue slides past your lips in an obscene kiss, licking into you, until all you can do is moan your breathlessness into his mouth. It’s the kind of kiss that steals souls, makes your head spin, threatens the structural integrity of every joint holding you upright. You haven’t even taken off a single piece of clothing and he’s already doing his best to bury himself inside you any way he can.

Before you can make a move to solve the clothing problem yourself, he yanks you around so your back is to him. The room spins as he rips your shirt over your head, flicks open the clasp of your bra and flings them both to the floor. His huge hands clamp around your hips, thumbs hooked under your waist band, skimming toward the button on your jeans popping it, oblivious or maybe even callous to the way you shiver under his touch. One arm snakes up your back, warm pressure hinging you forward as he grinds his bare erection against your ass.

Your forearms land against a towel on the bench, and you realize he’s had this planned, thought about it ahead of time, which is more than you can say about many of his so-called plans. He barrels through life in a knee-jerk series of semi-appropriate reactions to whatever ridiculous situation he finds himself in, directed by a Grand Master Game Plan with a single action item: Wing it. It works for him. But you recognize this towel—it’s your softest, thickest bath towel folded triple, positioned perfectly to guard your elbows from grinding against the hard wood of the bench he bends your body over. 

“Look at that perfect ass, I swear to God,” he snarls, slapping down into the pillow of fat you carry around your hips, his hand landing with a crack and grabbing a handful of your ass. It’s just a swat, not even close to crossing the line into pain, but you jerk into your elbows from the impact all the same. 

His knees meet the cool tile under your feet with a dull thud, and the next thing you know, he’s stripped both the thick denim of your jeans and the soft cotton of your underwear down your legs in one fell swoop. He unhooks the cuffs from your ankles one by one and hurls your cheap flats against the wall behind him with careless abandon. His warm hands curl around your ankles as he spreads your stance wide in front of him. 

Before you can even start to adjust to the cool air against your skin, he buries his face in you, tongue swiping up from clit to cunt, lapping into you to collect the essence of you in his mouth. He moans against you like he’s starving. The rumbling vibration of his voice wracks your entire body before he pulls away, licking his lips as though each drop of you is precious, sweet ambrosia.

He hums in satisfaction, then presses two of his thick fingers into your heat, curling downward against something bright and explosive at your core, a self destruct button that only he has the codes for. You shudder with the sensation, split further open than you’ve been for almost a month, grinding back against him for more, for _anything_. 

“Has this pussy missed me?” He chuckles as you take his fingers easily. Cries tumble from your lips at the slide of him inside you, intoxicating after being denied for so long. “Yeah it has. Your body’s begging for me, baby.”

“I’ve been begging for days, Ben,” you remind him as you drop your forehead into the towel. 

“Yeah, I know honey, I’m sorry.” 

A thought occurs to you suddenly, a flash of panic ripping through you as you glance back over your shoulder at him. “You locked the gym-side door right?”

He makes a non-committal sound down in his throat. His eyes stay plastered to the way his fingers disappear inside you as he stands, his mouth slack and stupid from the wet sound of him filling you as his hand twists, never breaking rhythm as he pumps into you. 

“Benny—”

“Huh?” He takes a minute, furrowing his eyebrows as though he has to wrack his brain for the memory of your question. “Yeah, I locked the door honey. But would that be so bad? Reporters come crawling into the locker room scrambling for an interview, instead get to see just how good the Western United States Middleweight Champion fucks his woman?”

The thought thrills through you, settling between your legs like fire. The media in the wake of a fight like this are relentless, shouting questions without looking, cameras flashing. You know they’re still ringside as the fight promoters shift the gymnasium from an arena to a press conference stage. It’s not at all outside the realm of possibility that some overzealous journalist could bust into the locker room, eager to take the first bite of Benny. A bite that belongs to you.

They’d get a hell of an eyeful. You’re bent over, not quite in half but well past parallel with the floor, buck naked and dripping, grinding back against the fingers of a hand that beat a man nearly unconscious not even thirty minutes ago, the entirety of your body screaming, begging to be filled, to be _fucked_. 

“They come in right now they ain’t gonna see— _shit!_ ”

His fingers slip out of you and he replaces them suddenly and without warning, his cock shoved deep into you in one swift stroke, cutting off your words as you cry out around him. 

“I’m sorry baby what was that?”

He doesn’t expect an intelligent answer, and you couldn’t have given one even if he had. The naked slaps of his hips against the backs of your thighs echo obscenely in the cavernous space of the locker room. The sobs coming out of your mouth rival the snarls from his as he surrenders himself to a primal frenzy, desperate and needy as he buries himself inside you. 

He fought. He won. He claims his prize. That’s how this works.

Benny’s hands rake down your back, a heavy pressure kneading your muscles, a firm weight over your entire back—a silent demand to stay right where he puts you as he hammers into your body. He holds you steady as if he’s afraid you’re planning to bolt, to run away, as though you hadn’t walked into his lair and surrendered to him easily, head held high, eyes wide open and aware. 

“Shit,” he grunts. “When we get home, I’m gonna fuck you on every flat surface we own.”

Nights like this? He’s good for it. 

He may have you trapped beneath him, but you’re not without options either. You curl your hands around the sides of the bench, and knock a slight bend into your knees. It’s just enough leverage that you can buck against him, meeting him halfway the next time he throws himself forward. He collapses onto your back from the shock of it when he almost hits the end of you. You grin over your shoulder. 

“Promise?”

“Oh, you got some fight in you tonight, sweetheart, huh?” he growls, voice swelling with pride as he uses your back to push himself back upright. “Of course you do, you’re _my fucking wife_.”

This isn’t one of those lovely times when you have hours to explore each other. There will be time for that later. He has a press conference to attend soon, after all. This is satisfaction of that primeval urge to couple, to take and to be taken after so long denied. You’re not even embarrassed in the slightest at how quickly you arch up toward your dizzying heights, snatched from the ground and thrown into the air, pleasure snapping up sharp and savage, everything tightening within the feral haze of Benny slamming into you. He senses it too.

“Touch yourself, hon–wanna feel you come.”

All it takes is a few targeted circles of the tight bundle of nerves tucked between your legs and it’s over. If you were hoping to keep your coupling a secret, you probably just failed. Anyone standing on the other side of the door and paying even half-attention would almost surely be able to hear the primitive wail he tears from your throat, sharp and devastating, as he fucks you through your release.

Benny growls. He lunges forward just enough to curl one hand around your shoulder and drag your torso up just far enough that you can no longer reach the bench beneath you. His other hand wraps around your waist as he angles his hips to rut upward into you, impaling you on him and battering so deep that you swear you feel him behind your eyes. It doesn’t take him long before he slams against you one last time and stills, his second ferocious cry of victory for the night echoing off the bare walls of the locker room. 

If you hadn’t given away the game a few minutes ago, Benny _definitely_ just did. 

Your muscles burn from head to toe and your legs wobble as he slips out of you and gathers your back to his chest. He groans into your shoulder, sated and peaceful, almost _purring_ as he plants a series of nips and open-mouthed kisses at the sensitive skin behind your ear. You smile, even as his release starts dripping down your thighs. 

“Good to have my husband back”

“Yeah, I missed your pussy too, babe.”

You elbow him in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to make him leap back from you with a grunt. 

“Ah-ha! What!?” He protests, his grunt of surprise turning into a laugh, “It’s what you just said to me!”

It’s a fair point, so you let him gather you back up into his arms, nuzzling into the tuft of chest hair between his pecs, both of you drenched in sweat and panting. 

“Come on,” he rumbles in your hair. “Let’s hit the showers.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr [HERE](https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/625561777569153024/fight-night)


End file.
